ion between gentlemen," he said.

Reid blinked up at him, an odd leer on his sophisticated face, saying
no more. He made a pack on his saddle of the camp outfit, and started
off along the ridge, leaving Mackenzie to follow as he pleased. A mile
or more along Reid pitched upon a suitable camping place. He had
himself established long before Mackenzie came to where he sat smoking
amid his gloomy, impatient thoughts.

"I'm not going over to relieve that old skunk," Reid announced, "not
without orders from Sullivan. If he gets off you'll have to relieve
him yourself. I don't want that Hall guy to get it into his nut that
I'm runnin' away from him."

"All right, Earl," said Mackenzie, good-naturedly, "I'll go."

"You'll be half an hour nearer Joan's camp--she'll have that much
longer to stay," said Reid, his mean leer creeping into his wide, thin
lips again.

Mackenzie turned slowly to look him squarely in the eyes. He stood so
a few seconds, Reid coloring in hot resentment of the silent rebuke.

"I've heard enough of that to last me the rest of your three years,"
Mackenzie said, something as hard as stones in a cushion under his
calm voice.

Reid jerked his hip in his peculiar twisting movement to shift his
pistol belt, turned, and walked away.

If it was the lonesomeness, Mackenzie thought, it was taking a mighty
peculiar turn in that fellow. He was more like a cub that was
beginning to find itself, and bristle and snarl and turn to bite the
hand that had fended it through its helpless stage. Perhaps it would
pass in a little while, or perhaps it would get worse on him. In the
latter case there would be no living on the range with Reid, for on
the range Mackenzie believed Reid was destined to remain. He had been
trying to borrow money to get away, with what view in his dissatisfied
head Mackenzie could not guess. He hadn't got it; he wouldn't get it.
Those who had fattened on him in his prosperity were strangers to him
in his time of penance and disgrace.

Mackenzie put off his start to Dad's camp until dusk, knowing the old
man would prefer to take the road at night, after his mysterious way.
He probably would hoof it over to Sullivan's and borrow a buckboard to
make a figure in before the widow-lady upon whom he had anchored his
variable heart.

Reid was bringing in the sheep when Mackenzie left, too far away for a
word. Mackenzie thought of going down to him, for he disliked to part
with anything like a sha